Give Us a Kiss, and Pray We Don't Die
by AnnabeeLee
Summary: Sometimes, John has to deal with something other than monsters and gods and annoying roommates with attractive faces. And those times are generally the absolute worst. Part Four of the God(s?) series.


Title: Give Us a Kiss, and Pray We Don't Die

Rating: T

Summary: Sometimes, John has to deal with something other than monsters and gods and annoying roommates with attractive faces. And those times are generally the absolute worst.

Notes: Happens about three months after 18th Century. I strongly recommend reading the previous ones before this one. (it's un-beta'd and I'm sorry about that)

* * *

"Where is the jade pin?" John's arms are aching, there's a bruise forming on his head from where they had knocked him out, and he's tied to a fucking chair in a back alley somewhere. Fantastic.

"I don't know!" Nobody listens to him. No one. He doesn't even know why he tries anymore.

"I wouldn't keep it a secret for much longer." The woman gestures to the giant fucking spear of death pointed towards John, leering at him as the sand bag steadily trickles onto the floor and John's imminent death inches lower and lower into the trigger.

"I keep telling you, I don't know where it is!" Because he honestly doesn't, but nobody is listening to him, like usual, and now he's going to become a fixture on the wall behind him because of Sherlock fucking Holmes. Who is miraculously conveniently somewhere else at the moment instead of by John's side like he's fucking supposed to be. John does his job to a T, but the moment Sherlock takes an inch, he's a mile away.

Fucker.

So, John's waiting, unable to breathe or think as the sandbag dips so low and the spear is all but vibrating for his internal organs. The mob boss is happy despite his lack of knowledge, reveling in the cruelty of it all, and if John could form a coherent thought, he'd be begging whatever death god there was that his next life takes place in the Hawaiian Islands or Jamaica or some other warm, nice place that has a lot of cheap alcohol and a distinct lack of demigods or interdimensional beasts.

Also a lack of Chinese mobs would be nice.

There's a bang, the spearhead turns and shoots some lackey in the chest, and a lot of fast bullshit goes down with Sherlock swooping in to save the day. The bad guys get away, much to Sherlock's disdain but John really can't give two fucks, and Sherlock is untying him from the chair so John can all but topple onto the ground as his legs and arms are nothing but jelly at this point.

"I hate you. I literally, bloody hate you." John tells him, babbling now that he can once again take in oxygen and Sherlock is helping him off of the ground. He's ignoring how much he's leaning on Sherlock. John's legs are working fine, to be sure, but Sherlock is warm and solid and John's whole body is basically powder right now.

"I would be extremely surprised to find out you didn't." Sherlock tells him, and John doesn't have the capacity yet to wonder at the note of sour acceptance in Sherlock's voice, seeing how he's still seeing spears dancing before his eyes. They leave the alley, the new D.I. Dimmock gets what's coming to him, and someone puts a shock blanket around John's shoulders as he sits on the curb, waiting for Sherlock to finish wrapping things up.

He would've been angrier about that, but yeah, he's halfway into a panic attack and is beginning to wonder why he ever thought the army would be a good choice. Well, he knew why, and at one point, it would've been perfect for him, but now, after Harry's death and months spent more or less as bait for all manner of things with teeth… well, he's not even material enough for a job as a secretary, much less a soldier.

It may be early onset post traumatic stress disorder, but he's starting to flip out at the slightest hint of what may be black tentacles, or spider-birds, or fucking basement whales. Flinching at any sound that could be mistaken for gunfire. Which Sherlock finds both irritating and hilarious because of fucking course.

"I'm fine, honestly." John says.

"No, you're not." Sherlock tells him, taking a seat next to him on the curb as Dimmock decides whether or not he can send them away yet. John's glad the young officer hasn't paid him much mind, but neither have the paramedics. In fact, Sherlock might've been the one to give him the blanket. No surprise there, no one pays any attention to him.

Except Chinese mob bosses and the gods for some fucking reason.

"You're absolutely correct on that one. Bang up job, by the way." He rubs his arms, trying to stop the burn in them from the shitty job his kidnappers did at tying his arms behind his back. Out of his peripheral, he can see Sherlock reaching for him, but the man seems to think better of it, instead going back to staring across the street at no one.

"You're alive, that's all that really matters."

"Yeah, but what if I wasn't?" It wasn't meant to come out so harsh, but, fuck, he already said it. Sherlock gives him that look, the one where John knows he's not making any sense. "What if you'd come too late?"

"I wouldn't let that happen, obviously." Sherlock tells him, confidently and in a way that has John wanting to punch him... some more.

"Fuck, Sherlock, just bear with me for a few seconds, alright? What would you have done if I had died? If you had come too late, and I was pinned to the wall?" For a second, John is sure Sherlock will ignore that, or give him a nasty answer that will make him much more queasy than he already is. Instead, in a deadpan, heart-wrenching voice, Sherlock tells him-

"I would never forgive myself." And before John can sputter a reply, they're calling Sherlock away for some reason.

"Wait-" Sherlock's already gone, talking to Dimmock and Lestrade who has just arrived on the scene and John is left to think about that. Except, he really doesn't, because he sees them wheeling out the spear thing, and he's back to square one.

Tonight has been fantastic, let John tell you.

* * *

The next few days are nothing special. Well, when the days vary between monster fights, people trying to murder you, and finding a sea urchin in the coffee tin, there has to be something really extraordinary for it to be special. Or even mildly interesting. It was nice though. Relaxed, despite Sherlock stomping around in his pajamas, king of the rock and apparently bored out of his mind. He hasn't disappeared in two weeks, which is fine and dandy, but if he's going to continue glaring at John while he types up the assignments, John might throw the laptop at him.

And he's not a going to fucking miss if Sherlock keeps 'making deductions' about his most embarrassing childhood moments.

"I'm not your personal toy, Sherlock." John finally snaps, Sherlock reminding him of that one time when he was seven and the older kids next door had him prance around the neighborhood in one of Harry's dresses. Not only had that been horrible, the dress had also been the ugliest thing on the planet, and John had spent an enormous amount of effort trying to forget it.

But no, he's got Sherlock Holmes in the house, so all bets are off. You don't want to remember that terrible horrible memory? Too bad, cause Sherlock's going to find it, animate it, and post it online for the whole world to view in full 1080p just so you can't miss a single pixel of childhood horror.

"It's a disease, this." Sherlock moans instead, flopping around his chair.

"No, it fucking isn't." John snaps back, but Sherlock's already into his tirade and there's no stopping him now.

"I need distraction, John. My mind rots from the stagnation-"

"I really don't care." Sherlock doesn't hear him, just continues to moan and whine about 'bored' and 'too intelligent for this life' or something, and John's trying to tune him out, but it isn't working. Sherlock can be grating when he needs to be.

At least he's in a lazier mood. This, John can deal with. When he's slumping around, pouting, acting like a five year old who had his favorite action figure taken away for setting the cat on fire again. Easy. What John cannot do is live with Sherlock when he's manically bored. When he's, in essence, flipping out about having absolutely nothing to do. That's when he's the most frightening. When there's heads in the fridge and things get burnt with acid and Sherlock is pacing with a spear or the pistol or some other dangerous object while John just sort of recoils on the sofa or hides in his room.

Frightens the hell out of John every time, and he does his best to avoid it. Even if it means texting Mycroft on his brand new, definitely-did-not-get-Sherlock-to-ask-for-it, cellphone. It's an old little flip phone that can basically call, text, and serve as a rock if ever needed, but it gives John the illusion he has a bit more freedom. Which, illusion is a powerful thing, seeing how the gods have been pulling one giant magician's performance over the rest of the universe for about, oh let's say, forever.

Illusion is all anyone has, really. And fuck if anyone knows why people go to war over it.

So John will text up Mycroft when Sherlock is really bad and aiming the gun at the wall for the umpteenth time since hiding it from him is virtually worthless, and they would be issued a meaningless but distracting assignment. If that didn't work, then Lestrade was the next contact, followed by Molly, who had a strange amount of bodies with varying weird causes of death to examine, and then after her, John was basically shit out of luck. He would resort to holing himself in his room while Sherlock played an extremely grim sonata on his violin that would certainly give John nightmares for weeks.

The lethargic, slug-like sulking, though? That's fine. No real problem. John could use Sherlock for an extra end table if he wanted too, and Sherlock would neither care nor budge an inch, which was fucking brilliant and endlessly hilarious. Right now, the demigod was taking up the entire sofa, a black depressing cloud hung over his head and John could almost shed a single tear of pure pain for him. Poor thing.

Honestly, so long as a case or an assignment pops up in a week or so, John has nothing to worry about, save for the three foot radius around Sherlock becoming a zone of pure insults and jabs at John's intelligence. It's almost like a holiday, except, you know, he's still stuck within a very strict radius of the flat with a depressed demigod who could at any time become a raging psychopath. And who he also has unrequited feelings for.

Close enough.

"John." The worst part. The absolute worst part of these calm/irritating/funny times was this right here. When Sherlock does move from wherever he's chosen to lay, pads silently over to where John is sitting, standing, cooking, cleaning, typing, or otherwise doing whatever it is he does to pass time nowadays, and _hovers_. Not the 'stand a little ways away and fidget' kind of hovering, which would be fucking great compared to the Sherlock brand of hovering which is 'breathe down target's neck directly behind him until the target becomes very self-conscious and then say target's name in an extremely low, half-dirty sort of way to scare the honest fuck out of him'.

John jumps about the length of a fighter plane in to the air, whips around to come face to face with Sherlock's chest, and then looks up to glare at the bastard's face.

"What?" He says after about ten seconds of staring. John was doing really well in the not thinking about his coworker in the sexy sense. Four days without it crossing his mind. He thought he was getting a bit better at not being a complete moron, mooning over Sherlock like a teenager, but that goes flying out the window with Sherlock standing there with this puppy eyed expression and John mostly just wants to kiss that look off his stupid face.

"I'm hungry." Sherlock tells him, and John no longer wants any form of affection with the man. Now he just wants to punch him.

"Go bother Mrs. Hudson. Or better yet, learn how to cook yourself. You're bored enough. I'm sure you can figure it out." John goes back to his laptop, proud of himself. For a moment, a single delusional moment, John believes Sherlock will take his advice.

Then the man slumps forward against the back of John's chair and his shoulders, and John's actually contemplating murder. He makes this low needy whine and is warm across John's back and John's actually starts thinking a bit more depraved thoughts than he was five seconds ago.

It ends up with John making food, (again), and Sherlock eating it, (without saying thanks) while John sits across from him in the kitchen. He's not actually hungry, but he picks at his food anyways because why not, it's there and he made it. Sherlock eats like he hasn't in a month, which is probably true, and John watches out of the corner of his eye because it's just really fucking rare to see the man _eating_. Its nice, this. Calm, peaceful, almost normal.

It's almost like playing a game with Sherlock now. Nine months into their companionship, and John's teetering on the edge of a breakdown. He's not good at hiding this _thing_ between them, not good at keeping hismelf from looking and making stupid face when Sherlock does something kind or brilliant. Sherlock has to know, can't know. John doesn't want him to, not if he doesn't reciprocate, because making what they have now awkward or uncomfortable is the last thing John wants.

So he stays quiet, and just looks and imagines. He can deal with that.

"You like it when I eat." Sherlock says, out of the blue, startling John. Anxiety flares up, cold and spikey in his spine and gut. Oh, fuck no.

"What?"

"It makes you feel more comfortable when I act mortal." John has to blink, spoon poised halfway to his mouth for some soup he didn't want to eat. Sherlock's not even looking up from his plate, and before John can take a stab at what that phrase was supposed to mean or what the burn of guilt low in his stomach even was, there's someone's knocking at the door. Sherlock leaves to get it, and John has little time to calm his nerves before Irene Adler walks through the doorway and all hell breaks loose.

* * *

John knew of two types of demigods, each on opposite ends of a very straight and narrow spectrum. Ones like Mycroft, and ones like Molly. Mycroft, of course, was an emotionless ass who couldn't be bribed to remember the human half of his heritage, and Molly was more human, or at least she somewhat sympathized with them. Sherlock said it was because she was younger, and hadn't had as much time to become fucking annoyed with the mortal race, but still. Sherlock fell on that Mycroftian end, though, which might be because he's sort of middle-aged.

What he might be like in 150 years, John only hoped the world would be ready for that.

From what John could surmise, all demigods fell on this line. They were either Mycrofts, or Mollys, or somewhere in between, and that's all. No more, no less.

Then Irene Adler walked into 221B on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, and John learned of the third and final kind of demigod. The kind who don't even try to care for humanity, and who find genocide and natural disasters absolutely hilarious. The kind who barely cared for their own godly brethren, let alone the mortals. Right now, John wished he had been kept in the dark about those kind of people.

"Hello Sherlock." She purred when Sherlock had opened the door. John could see, from his perch in the kitchen where he had been puzzling out one of Sherlock's more… mechanical experiments, how Sherlock's posture went from kind of annoyed to 'Medusa just walked in with a flamethrower'.

She didn't push past him, she moved him, with her mind or some wave of her hand or some other weird ass god bullshit, and Sherlock was pushed away like he was standing on ice and practicing a ballet routine. Irene strode into the room with all the confidence of a shark stalking the ocean, the fish around her that meant nothing more than a quick meal if she really put the effort into it. There was distaste on her face, but the tight smile wiped it away as she turned back to the still wide-eyed suspicious Sherlock.

"Well, it's a marked improvement than that trap they had you in, I'll give Mycroft that."

"Why are you here? I know it isn't to check up on me, so what do you want?" Sherlock inquires, closing the front door, yet not moving away from it. Doing so would put him closer to Irene, and neither John or Sherlock wanted that.

"I can't visit our favorite little failer every now and then?"

"Last time we were in the same room together, you drove a knife between my ribs. I hardly doubt this is a social call."

"Mm, and I'd do it again, but I wouldn't want to scare your pet over here." She glanced at John for the first time since arriving, that disgusted expression back on her face. "How is it living with the nobody? Completely boring, I'd expect."

"Oh, fuck off." John probably shouldn't have done that. Someday, he'll learn to keep his mouth shut, but that day is not today.

"I see he's got a mouth on him. Such a shame." She does this weird double jointed movement with her wrist, the sort of thing you see in online videos that kind of sickens you but you immediately hit the replay button because _how in the hell_, and John feels a searing pain in his face that sends him to his knees. He presses his palm to his mouth only to find-

He doesn't fucking have one anymore.

"Much better." Irene laughs as John stands up, trying to find his lips again, this muffled cry coming through the sealed space where his mouth had once been. He looks to Sherlock for help, who is just standing there, lost on what to do, which is great for him but his face is still intact so John actually isn't happy for the sympathy. He truly starting to panic, because this is insane and he keep trying to breath out his mouth but that's clearly not working and-

"John, breathe through your nose." He didn't realize Sherlock had come anywhere near him, but very suddenly, he is there, hand on John's shoulder, steadying him.

"Fuck off!" which are the words John would be shouting, again, but the distinct lack of an orifice to do so from makes this impossible. Instead, he glares at Sherlock, then Irene as the panic dwindles to a manageable state. This isn't saying much, since, well, he no longer has a mouth, and saying anything has become a real problem.

"Fix him." Sherlock tells Irene, who is smiling as if watching a mildly boring primary school dance performance.

"I don't think so. Now, the grown ups can have a conversation without being interrupted. And, John, since you're not going to be doing anything interesting anyways, why don't you make us some tea like a good little dog you are?" John makes an obscene gesture, and another that mimes he's going to poison her cup but Irene hasn't looked at him again since taking his mouth. So he rages in the kitchen silently, and makes the damned tea because he has nothing better to do.

And if he slams it down hard enough to spill a bit on Irene's perfectly manicured hands, that's her problem, his mouth be damned.

This is how John ends up sitting in the one uncomfortable hard backed chair in the room, angrily silently fuming as Irene and Sherlock have the single most awkward exchange since John's first stumbling's with Susie Robert's bra back when he was fifteen. Irene is flirting with Sherlock, which John is pretty sure is a half-veiled attempt to threaten him at the same time, and Sherlock is sitting across the room, trying to act normal, but clearly uncomfortable as he keeps darting to look at John every time Irene blinks as if John can do a damn thing. All the while, John sits to the side, wondering if he opened the window and dived out head first, if it was an assured way to kill himself.

He measures it, mentally, thinks on it, and decides that no, John's going to save crashing into Mrs. Hudson's bins for something much worse, like when Sherlock's in his fucking towel again, that skimpy little ratty green one that hangs lows on his hips while he's arguing on the phone with Lestrade and still pink and soaked from the shower. This way, instead of doing something incredibly embarassing and that could possibly be construed as sexual harassment, he can just dive out the window, and everything will be all better.

"I need your help." Irene tells them, eventually, but like hell John's helping anyone who steals mouths. He's already thinking of all the ways to say 'not a fucking chance' non-verbally, and nearly misses the next part. "I've lost something very near and dear to my parent-god, and I need it back."

Parent is the international code word for god, John has found. Since most demigods are raised by human parents, they have to distinguish from one set to the other with some sort of phrase or code or hand gesture, and parent seems to have caught on fantastically. Sherlock and Mycroft are unsurprisingly oddballs since they refer to their parent-god as Mummy. John actually does not want to know the reasoning behind that, because he's almost 95% positive it will mean they'd have to kill him.

"And what exactly does the great Irene Adler lose?" Sherlock snips, which makes John distinctly happy knowing he's not the only one unhappy about the situation. Point to Sherlock, though he's still behind since Irene's got a score of about ten already in the 'rude little shit' department.

John's not a fair-weather friend, however. He's rooting for Sherlock all the way.

"A rock attached to a stick, and that's all you need to know." She snaps right back. "I figured I could steal away Mycroft's pet to do my work for me." She's eyeing John now, smiling a fake thing that makes him glare harder. "Does it not like not talking?"

"Give him back his mouth." Sherlock tells her, though its more of a plea wrapped in what was failing to be a command. For all of his cold, demanding appearance, Sherlock was still at the bottom of the list. He had to ask permission to _blink_ let alone tell Irene to stop warping his partner's face.

They were both fucked over so bad, they could hardly see the fucking sunlight on the clearest of June mornings on top of a mountain with a pair of binoculars.

Whether Irene takes pity or is just bored with watching John trying to use pyrokinesis and set her aflame, she waves her hand and John's got a mouth again. And the first thing he does with that shiny new mouth?

Scream because it feels like Irene drove a hatchet into his face to make said mouth. What in the hell did you think he was going to do?

"Fucking hell! Jesus, shit, god dammnit!" He articulates eloquently, touching his screaming lips. He rubs them, whimpers when that doesn't help, stands up and paces the room all while trying not to claw his face off. He ends up with mixed results, (Sherlock will tut at the nail marks on his arms but John did technically avoid the face).

It couldn't be a normal day, could it? Something like this had to happen. John just wanted to relax, but no, the harpy from planet 'I'm a giant asshole' had to come in and take his mouth because hey, why the fuck not?

All the while, Sherlock stays planted where he is because this honestly is not the weirdest thing that's happened to them. John can say that without a shadow of a doubt because about two weeks ago, Sherlock had been a cat for three days straight. He also had a bit of a scratching problem. John's favorite jacket bared the brunt of that little catastrophe, God rest its soul.

"My my, is this what you live with?" Irene gasps, "I couldn't imagine it."

"The point, Irene." John's actually glad Sherlock's just as ticked off as he is at Irene's constant obnoxious threats. But here's the thing, the thing no one decides to tell him till days later when it's no longer prevalent: Irene's parent-god is in essence Chaos, and fucking with people is sort of her career. Outside of the whole dominatrix thing. Which John also does not find about later.

These gods and their day jobs, its bloody weird.

In the end, Irene makes the proposition, giving them a folder, where all the pages are in a complete randomized order, and any attempt to organize them is in vein, though the deal itself is very straight forward. Go to the place, get the rock, and don't die. She doesn't give any form of compensation or reason why they should consider going through with it, so John's natural response is-

"Sounds like a personal problem." John retorts, handing her back the packet. His mouth still stings with the wrath 8,000 bees and now he has a headache from the magical chaos papers, so he's happy as a clam to be rid of them. "I have a choice in this, yeah? So, my answer's no. You can find your rock on your own."

"John." Sherlock warns, but John still hasn't learned his lesson.

"What? Her responsibility, she lost it, she can go find it. Not my problem." Irene is livid, which she doesn't bother to hide, and for a moment, John's pretty sure he's going to lose all of his facial features this time before Sherlock steps in and politely (Sherlockian for 'a bit less than absolutely rude'), excuses the both of them.

"This isn't something we can say no to." Sherlock tells him in a hushed note, once they're somewhat out of earshot.

"What? Why? She's not our boss. Mycroft is. Isn't he some sort of head demigod thing?"

"For us, yes. Irene doesn't have anyone to answer to. If she decided to turn you inside out for the rest of your life, there's no one to stop her. Or reverse it without pulling more favors than either of us have at our disposal."

"Won't that piss off, you know, an actual god? Like your Mummy?"

"No, I think she might find it rather funny." John want's to argue. Oh yes, he does. He never gets a choice. He never gets to choose yes or no, instead usually being thrust into things with little to no consideration. It's having a cake pushed into your face and all the promises of eating it, only to have some fuck face come by and smash it all to pieces for no reason.

"Wonderful." John says, gritting his teeth and choking down yet another disappointment. When they tell Irene of their consent to do her dirty work, she gives them the location, some sort of pen that will allow them to blink close by so as to not alarm Mycroft's acolytes, and then she vanishes into a fire that takes ten minutes to put out. When the flames have been staunched, a tree sapling is found growing out of the floorboards and John's too damn frustrated to ask why its even there or why Sherlock's not even phased.

Later, they will find out that its a type of extinct oak that's been dead for about five million years, but that is neither here nor there.

* * *

If John had known what would happen on this assignment, he probably would've been a bit more adamant on the whole 'not helping Irene'. The pen left a foul taste in John's mouth, and made him want to vomit on the side of the road where they reappeared. He's never been a fan of blinking but apparently it's even worse if by pen. He doesn't understand why, but this is one of those things that John knows if he asks, the explanation will just give him a headache.

Their destination was supposed to be a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, but it became really fucking apparent once they arrived that the 'rock attached to a stick' was a bit more powerful than Irene made it out to be. To be honest, the farmhouse was still there, but so was a giant hole in the fabric of reality that, when you looked inside, seemed to be a tear in space and time to a another country entirely, with decaying stone ruins just beyond the border. John had to take a moment to let this process, glancing to Sherlock who, surprise surprise, didn't seem to care.

The target was a woman standing right in front of the rift, the staff (cause that's what it was, Irene's just a fucking liar) strapped to her back. There were corpses too, six of them of varying ages surrounding her. Very obviously, the family that had lived here before was now strewn about, and John's sick to his stomach again at the thought, a rolling anger burning through him. One of them can't be more than five, for fuck's sake.

The staff itself, as John would later come to find out because no one thought it would be a good idea to inform him beforehand, is actually a piece of material of a by-gone era. No, not like the Jurassic period, or the Stone Age, or the 60's (which yeah, was pretty strange), but from a series of universes that existed before the one's John and Sherlock and all of them existed in today. It's a rock from a time before the gods, and whoever made it all, before bad pop music and weird celebrity shows. It's a rock that honestly shouldn't even exist, but it does, and it acts like an anti-matter bomb to anything that is a) supposed exist in this 'era' and b) living.

Which John and Sherlock walk into like its no big fucking deal because one of them doesn't know what the fuck is happening anyways and the other is, well, he's Sherlock and John has come to not expect anything less from him.

She disappears into the rift after seeing them coming, not out of fear, but out of a blatant trap that John rushes into headfirst, the little boy dead on the ground driving him forward. He doesn't hear the shout of warning from Sherlock, just pulls the gun from his pocket, (not safe, don't try that at home), and charges in. The rift, as it were, was indeed a wormhole, torn into the fabric of reality by the staff, which tied this little farmhouse to a crumbling ancient city that John will never in his life find out if they were located on Earth, or some other planet, or even some other _dimension_. All he knows, at that time, is that this woman who is gleefully cackling and waiting for him, murdered a family of six: a mother, a father, two teenage girls, and three boys who were all younger that eleven.

Everyone makes stupid decisions. John's just happen to be extremely fucking stupid. Especially when it turns out the moment he charges in, Sherlock is locked out from following because their target is much like Irene. And by that he means, a giant fucking asshole.

John ends up getting shot once by the staff, but in the shoulder, thank God. While he remains remarkable alive but in a fuck ton of pain, the woman screams in fury, and tries again, only to miss and instead hit the ruins behind John. Which ends up falling onto John. More specifically his leg.

Which makes him trapped in a possible alternate dimension with just a pistol while a lady with a god rock is aiming a third shot at him. Even though the gun feels a bit underwhelming in comparison to his direct competition, John shoots her in the stomach, surprising both of them with his aim. This doesn't bring him any relief, or glee to see her stumble as blood seeps through her shirt and she whimpers in horror. The woman puts a hand over the wound, gaping at the crimson wet that coats her palm. John drops the gun at his own surprise as she falls to the ground while blood pours out of the hole in her gut, the fuzzy blankness of the realization that he killed someone wiping any other thought from his mind.

She's going to die here, and John had done that to her, been jury, judge, and executioner. He had been angry, yes, so very pissed off that this woman had murdered an entire family, but to shoot her himself? God, what did that make him?

He's struggling, trying to pull his foot out from the rubble, but its pressed down under enough rock to make this impossible along with the indisputable fact that it might be broken. John still tries though and the woman gets second wind, struggling to sit up and steady the staff. She's lining up another shot, this one aimed for his head. He watches in a deadened terror, as it dawns on him there's nothing he can do. Not a single fucking thing and he's going to die here too, half buried in rock with the last image burned into his retinas is the bleeding violence wrought upon another human's body.

He doesn't die in grace or dignity, but as much a murderer as the person before him. That is the cruelty of life. That is the grand design of the universe.

Time essentially slows, the particles of ash and dust float infinitely calmly in front of him and his breathing is now measured in his ears compared to the desperate panting of before as the woman yells in all of the rage and hate of the life handed to her, pointing the shining rock at him. John will take it, he deserves it. He wants to close his eyes, but he can't force himself too, so instead he watches, ready, waiting for impact.

She shoots, and there's a blur, Sherlock appearing with a soft pop that roars in John's ears and he crumples before John in a burst of hazy green. John didn't realize he was screaming until he felt the raw burn in his throat and he saw the woman fall as well, her body finally succumbing to his gunshot. How John manages to escape the rubble crushing his foot is a mystery, for the moment between seeing Sherlock collapse and getting to his side is mostly a fuzzy clip of desperation and praying to whoever was listening that Sherlock wasn't dead.

"No, no, no, no, no." He says to himself, crawling over to Sherlock and ignoring the agonizing pain in his ankle and the hot spike in his shoulder. He rolls Sherlock to his back, noting the glassy stare in his eyes and, fuck, he isn't breathing.

That's fine though, right? He doesn't do that much anyways.

Right?

"Come on, Sherlock. Wake up." John's checking his pulse, but there's nothing. Does his heart beat in the first place? It must, but John doesn't know. They don't ever _tell_ him these things, but Sherlock must because John has this vivid memory of one of the few times they had been physically close, feeling the staccato of Sherlock's heart beat so close to his own, an unwavering thing John had never thought to think about, never thought he'd have to.

He chokes down the cry that's trying to punch its way out of his throat. Crying means giving up, and he's not doing that. There's no wound, there's no blood, or even a bruise, just Sherlock still as marble, skin rapidly cooling, and John's so damn lost. Where's Mycroft when he needs him? Or even Irene, or some god or demigod who might be there to help in the one time John actually wants them there?

"Get up!" He yells, slapping him, but that won't work so he's trying CPR, but he doesn't know if that's even something you do to a demigod. John's desperate to try, to beg and plead because like hell he's letting Sherlock die here.

* * *

John didn't become aware. He didn't just suddenly know that when he looked over his shoulder, there would be someone there. Instead, when he finally, through tear blurred eyes and aching arms, glanced behind him, it was because he heard from deep within his core the sound of his anguish being answered by something so infinitely empathetic and kind that it could not be human.

He looked and saw a figure, a foreboding person, ten feet tall with a body of mist cloaked in fog that ebbed and flowed all around them as it stared at John behind a white porcelain mask that held no features. An unfathomable being that was merely there yet encompassed everything in the silent, still area and John stumbled to his feet as the pain in his ankle receded, engulfed in how very tiny he was before this thing.

He staring slack jawed at a god. An actual, honest-to-God god. And not just any god either. Not some bullshit deity of light or fate or fucking bees. John was standing before Death itself.

Within him, he could feel a soul deep calm, something etched into his essence since the beginning of time. John can remember, like it was a faded abstract thing, fearing this moment, to see the deity in charge of his mortality, but here and now, blinking mutely at the god itself, he can't bring back that emotion. Now, he feels relaxed, comforted, at ease as though the world was no longer there and Sherlock wasn't a corpse at his feet.

Death moves in an unnatural manner, its foggy sexless form inching closer, an arm raising and reaching, reaching for Sherlock.

"No." John steps between them, whether in audacity or stupidity, he'll never figure out. "Not him."

Death does not respond in words, merely lowers its arm but still moves closer to John, head tilted in question. The open space around them is non-existent, and time has come to a stop, but John's too determined to keep Death away.

"I can't let you take him. I told him, I swore I wouldn't let this happen." John has to will himself not to glance at Sherlock, because if he does, then this all becomes much too real. "God, I-" He cuts himself off, choking on the guilt forming hard in his stomach and the tight pressure lining his throat. "Fuck."

Death, this infallible, impossible being who John hadn't even known existed until three months ago, touches him, on the same wrist which is currently rubbing at his stinging eyes. The touch is not cold, or hot, just a pleasant cool that's perfect on a warm summer day, but also fantastic for a frigid winter evening. The kind that makes you pause and lean into it and wonder if there could be anything better than this. Through the contact is pure sympathetic comfort, like every screaming facet of emotion is being ebbed and taken away into the foggy deity before him.

The touch leaves, and John wants to follow it, but he becomes increasingly aware of writing now etching itself down his wrist. He almost screams, because at first he thought it was a spider, and spiders can be really fucking terrifying when they sneak up on you like that and it'd be just his luck that one would be there. Instead, John grabs his wrist, watching as letters appear in his skin in a faint blue hue, perfectly printed on his forearm as if they were a tattoo that had been there since birth.

So he reads it, like any normal person would.

_The individual soul, bound to the lifetime contract with the specified deity in section A part 1, is hereby granted a single pardon for any end of life resulting in reincarnation._

There must be more, but this is all that appears, since its pretty well crammed in there as it goes. John cranes his neck to look at Death, and Death stares back.

"Any..." John reads it again, just to be sure. "Does that mean-?"

Death doesn't nod or shakes its head. It waits. But John doesn't know what to do, or say. One pardon? Is this exclusive to him? Or can he give to Sherlock? Does he want to? Fuck, yeah, he does. His chest is seizing at the thought, and he's spent nine months with the man already. Its not that long, but its seem like forever and Sherlock is now just a part of his life. He can't just let Sherlock die and leave John all alone with Mycroft and that flat empty of any strains of violins or nasty oozing things in the kitchen. As selfish as it is, that's his choice now.

But what if he needs this pardon? It crosses his mind, since this must be there for him. No, he doesn't really want it. One life like this, now, with the gods fucking with it, is enough. Its too much. And without Sherlock there, what's even the fucking point? Get stuck with another demigod while Sherlock's in soul limbo for ages and ages? Not a chance. Even if he doesn't care about John, beyond what's dictated, or even beyond a rocky friendship. That's all John has and he's not giving that up.

"Right, okay." John wipes his eyes, takes in a shaky breath because if he thinks what can happen will- "I want to use this. Right now. For him." He even points behind him, at Sherlock, just to make sure because Death still isn't moving, or saying anything, or giving any indication that it even hears John anymore. Dread begins to fill him as the thought finally occurs that no, this deity will deny his demand like every other giant dick that works for the divine does. "Please, just- What ever I have to do. I don't fucking care. Give him this." He steadies himself, and looks Death full on in it's blank white face for the first time since the deity appeared. "I don't need it."

There was a gasp, loud and perfect and John whipped around in time to see Sherlock's eyes fly open and his back arc as he took his first breath in what felt like ages. John is at his side in a flash, fingers touching briefly on Sherlock's pulse because it's been programmed into his head for years now, only to move to his face and chest and fucking hell, he's alive! John could cry, scratch that, is crying quietly as Sherlock coughs and tries to sit up, but John's already pulling him into a fierce wet hug.

Fuck, no one knows who's who and where's what in the confusion of John reconciling the fighting emotions of 'oh God, he's alive' and 'I'm going to kill him for pulling that shit', while Sherlock awkwardly holds him back. Death, quietly, silently, disappears into the fold of reality itself, but John doesn't notice, and doesn't actually give too much of a fuck. He's got what he wanted, and that's what matters most right now. He's not thinking about Death, or if the deity has an ulterior motive or how John is the only one to gain anything out of this, just Sherlock brilliantly, stupidly _alive_.

"You fucking bastard." John wails, pulling Sherlock as close as he can because like hell he's letting go now. "You utter fucking bastard." Sherlock, for the most part, is stiff, not quite sure where to put his hands, and when John finally pulls his face out of Sherlock's neck, he can see just how stunned and utterly confused the man is.

Welcome to John's life for the past nine months, asshole.

"I was dead." Sherlock says flatly, as if he can't quite believe that he's sitting here, apparently not dead with John basically sitting in his lap, blubberingwith a dirty face and with the sharp twist in his ankle bothering him again.

Shit, is he actually sitting in Sherlock's lap?

John pulls away just a bit, hands still firmly on Sherlock's shoulder but now they have a bit more breathing room and despite the joy and personal disbelief, John's starting to feel just a scant amount of embarrassment for how he's acting. He wipes his face and takes in a shaky guilty breath.

"Yes, well. I, huh- I made a deal." Sherlock's a fuck lot more alert when that leaves his mouth, and John's face is suddenly framed by two giant, no longer frigid fingers with Sherlock's extremely serious, John-you've-done-something-stupid face firmly in place. Out of all of Sherlock's many expressions, this is one John could probably draw from memory.

Blindfolded.

"What kind of deal?" The way Sherlock says this has John wondering just how many deals you can make with Death. It's a god, not a loan shark for fuck's sake. He would say this, but John's a little distracted by Sherlock's intense gaze and those hands still cupping his jaw and cheeks, and damn, it's about time John admitted he has a problem. Beyond the whole 'woah, in love with my roommate' business thing, of course. He can give himself some slack, however. He did watch the demigod die technically, so if his priorities aren't in the correct place then, well, whatever.

"I had a spare or something. I thought, you know, probably won't want to use it for myself so…" He lets that trail because now that the adrenaline and panic have ebbed, it was a rather strange thing to do for someone who's his coworker, basically. This is only amplified by the way Sherlock _gapes_ at him, like John just uttered the cure for cancer, the three easy steps to world peace, and the formula for the perfect amount of gratuity at any restaurant in one breath.

"What?" John asks when thirty seconds pass and Sherlock hasn't blinked let alone given any indicator that John didn't _break him_. Instead of an answer, John's being manhandled and within a flurry of movements, he's flat on his back, sprained ankle at an awkward angle and Sherlock's on top of him before- "Sherlock, what-"

He's being kissed. Honest to God, or gods, or _whoever_, kissed, with lips and John's too shocked to do a thing but lay there and try to process what the fuck is going on. He's thought about this, quietly, to himself but never thought that it would, or could happen. Then Sherlock's pulling back, hurt and disappointment lining his brow before John's brain finally, _finally_, kicks into gear and he's got an arm around Sherlock's neck, directing right back into another messy mashing of mouths.

It's not romantic, or perfect, or even good, but it's there, and it's a thing that's actually happening and the soft noise Sherlock makes when John runs a hand through his hair has him dying just a little on the inside. It doesn't go very far, just a soft press of lips in a desperate way that's had a long time coming and when they do break apart, they lay there for just a small time longer, just breathing and happy that they are alive and here.

And fuck, if John's ankle doesn't hurt, and they're still in no man's land, and they're going to have hell to pay when Mycroft finds out, but, really, he's content with this. He can with live with this stolen moment for just a bit longer.

* * *

**A.N.:** Part five y/n? Thank for reading and, as always, I highly enjoy any questions, comments, and concerns! I like hearing your thoughts.


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